We were leaving Wal*Mart, paying for our overnight accommodations with purchased staples. I saw her coming, tall blond, attractive, at most 35. She looked ahead blankly. Then I saw the cane, the limp. Jeans covered the damage. It’s not winter, I thought; not a ski injury, soon to heal and have her showing those long legs again by summer. It is summer.
I read her sweatshirt. My vision blurred; something slammed me in the chest, hard.
“Army,” it said.